Interim(77)

He closed his mouth.

“You’re a bully. You always have been. You prey on weak people to make yourself feel good. You think you own everybody and everything. Well, guess what, buddy? You don’t own me. I can’t believe it took me three years, and I wish to God I could get those three years back, but whatever. I can’t. I can move forward, though. And I’m gonna. Don’t call me, look at me, or touch me ever again. You understand that? I will put you on the ground and rub my cleat in your face if you even think about it. I’m done with you. I’m done with your threats, your manipulations, your lies. I’m done with your psycho personality. I’m done with you. You got that? DONE. Now get the hell out of my way because I’ve got a life to live.”

She pushed past him and strolled away without a second glance in his direction. The euphoria started in her feet—those feet that didn’t fail her! It shot up her legs and burst in her heart, forcing her hands to the sky and a triumphant “YES!” from her lips. She yelled it over and over, a new firework exploding in her heart each time she proclaimed the word. She walked all the way to her mother’s car with her hands stretched above her head, feeling the feather-light high-fives from all the angels in heaven.

That night the music permeated every square inch of the Walters home. No one made her turn it down because they knew she deserved it—loud, fist-pumping melodies that signaled her victory on the field and her bigger victory of the heart.

“Should we be worried?” Mr. Walters asked, watching his daughter bounce up and down spastically, completely oblivious to her parents’ presence in her open bedroom doorway. Caroline was there, too, trying hard to match her sister’s moves.

“I’ll let you know if and when I find her stash of furry leg warmers and glow sticks,” Mrs. Walters replied.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “and I don’t wanna know.”

Mrs. Walters smiled. “Better you don’t.”

She knew Regan’s euphoria wasn’t solely the aftereffect of a soccer victory, no matter her performance. And it was one hell of a kickass performance. Nope, this wasn’t all about soccer. This was about a girl who finally made a decision. A girl who stood up for herself.

The melody built to a fantastic explosion, and the girls yelled at the tops of their lungs, pumping their fists in halftime to the downbeat.

“Must we deal with the screaming, too?” Mr. Walters asked.

“For tonight? Yes,” Mrs. Walters replied. She took her husband’s hand and led him down the hall. “I’ll explain,” she said softly.

She glanced back to see Regan facing her direction, smiling brightly as she nodded her head to the music. Her mother nodded back—the unspoken understanding between them. And then she lifted her hand to her hip discreetly and curled it into a fist: the devil’s sign.

Rock on, baby. Rock on.





~

The scariest part of my plan is the realization that I’ll be caught. There’s no other way. I’ll be caught, arrested, tried for murder, convicted, and jailed. I know this, and it’s something I’ve been preparing myself for ever since I devised the plan. Sure, there are outs. 1. I could kill myself, but I’ve no reason to do that. Haven’t done anything wrong. Killing the bad guys is what’s saving my life, so why on earth would I turn around and take it? Makes no sense. 2. I could have a shootout with the police. But I don’t wanna do that either. I don’t want to risk an innocent person becoming a victim. Not trying to sound like a badass or anything, but I’m a pretty f*cking good shot. If they kill me, that’s fine. I understand they can’t see me as anything other than the perpetrator. The bad guy. It’s not their fault. So dying that way is okay. I wouldn’t blame them for doing what they thought was right. 3. I could give someone inside the building the opportunity to kill me. That could work, too. An altercation. They magically get the gun somehow. Maybe I can even help them sort of pull the trigger. They end up being the hero! Who doesn’t want to be the hero? Although, maybe they don’t want to be that kind of hero. People are weird about self-defense. Even justified, if they’re defending themselves with a gun, they still believe they did something wrong. I can’t have that on an innocent person’s conscience.

I guess that leaves me with surrendering. I’ll kill the bad ones, put down my guns, and wait for my justice.

~